


Grow Up and Shoot Him.  What Are You, a Jedi?

by rho_nin



Series: Blinker Sang Adventures, AUs, and Lore Galore! [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Assassination, Fix-It, Gen, Gray Jedi (Star Wars), Humor, I use this because Sang is definitely not totally a light-sider anymore, Is this crack?, It's not fluffy but it is very light-hearted generally, Murder, Okay don't get me wrong this is about killing a dude, The MCD is Palps so don't worry, Time Travel, Yoda's Disaster Lineage (Star Wars), but it's also about killing PALPS, my chaos-loving oc takes the deranged pragmatist route, not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rho_nin/pseuds/rho_nin
Summary: Sang has always been taught to make the best of a bad hand.  Time travel is a pretty good hand to start with in the first place.
Series: Blinker Sang Adventures, AUs, and Lore Galore! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096703
Kudos: 10





	Grow Up and Shoot Him.  What Are You, a Jedi?

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic about Sang, my Jedi OC. In this, Sang is 40 and her younger self is 12. Anakin is 16, so Obi-Wan is 32. Most of the timeline is based off my personal memory of Star Wars, so please don't expect this to be too accurate. But I did check Wookieepedia and it looks like nothing really happens in 25 BBY anyways, so I think it should be okay.
> 
> Sang came back from the future about a year ago and has been biding her time to figure out how to engineer the best outcome.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Sang addressed the Jedi Council. Her face was bare, bioluminescent markings and scars all on display, and her hair tied back loosely. She stood in parade rest, even though she was dressed in the most traditional Jedi robes she owned. “Unless you have questions I must answer, I will be brief.”

Master Windu nodded, inviting her to continue.

“I am stating for the record that I have not consulted, conspired, or colluded with any member of the Jedi Order and that my actions are done independently and of my own volition, with no influence from any political quarter.” She nodded, not moving from her position, and fell silent.

Master Windu nodded again, inviting her to continue.

“That’s it.”

“You’re not serious,” said Master Mundi, attending as a holo.

“I am.”

Yoda started to cackle. Sang carefully kept a straight face.

“You asked to have a meeting with us to give a disclaimer?” Master Windu said, as if he was checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

“That’s right.”

The Council stared at them in silence. Sang didn’t let their anxiety over being so examined show.

“If you have no other questions, may I go?”

The Council members looked at each other, no doubt having some riotous discussion within the Force that Sang was not privvy to. That was probably for the best; it was best that their head remained theirs and theirs alone for the time being. Just until they had taken care of the business that demanded their attention.

“Yes,” said Master Windu at length. “You may go.”

Sang bowed and took their leave without another word.

* * *

That the Jedi Council had decided not to thoroughly examine the _Liminal_ said something heartwarming about how much they trusted one of their own. It also said something deeply troubling about how easily they could be betrayed.

Sang made their way to the hangar of the temple at a leisurely pace, stopping to chat with anyone who wanted for however long they wanted. They had almost a whole day to burn, anyway, and looking like they were in a rush was only going to cause more problems for them. Several hours after their meeting with the Council, they found themself surrounded by younglings who were beyond ecstatic to play hide-and-seek with someone who could turn invisible.

It was only after a little Twi’lek found her that the crechemaster finally caught up and shepherded the younglings away, simultaneously apologizing to Sang for letting the younglings distract her from her duties and insinuating that Sang, as a no-good smuggler, really ought to stay away from the younglings for the sake of everyone involved.

She tried to convince herself that was fine; she’d admitted to a career intertwined with crime and had guessed at the consequences of doing so, but she had always liked creche duty, though extended youngling chores were a little more tiresome.

“Don’t worry about it,” said a voice Sang knew well. It had stopped sending a chill down their spine a few weeks back, but things were different today. And would certainly be irrevocably changed tomorrow. Anakin stopped at her side. “Master Schiist is just a little protective. She shouldn’t have called you a criminal. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Sang looked at him, still keeping her emotions on lockdown. It was one thing among children. It was quite another next to the man who would, with tonight’s activities, hopefully never be Darth Vader. “Why shouldn’t she?” The words came out deceptively calm; a krayt dragon opening her mouth and waiting. Even with all the intellectual understanding in the world, Sang was still bitter that their admitted history as someone on the wrong side of the law continued to contaminate their everyday-life. “I _am_ a criminal.”

“Well,” Anakin said, and Sang already knew he was going to say ‘not like _those_ criminals.’ “You’re different.”

“What a galaxy of difference that makes.”

“It does!”

It did, but only to Sang, her lineage, and a handful of other miscellaneous Jedi. But there was no sense in standing around and moping about it. She looked away again. “At least the Council knows who to ask when they decide to break intergalactic law.”

They could _feel_ Anakin’s scrutiny. “Have they asked you to do something…” He trailed off, and Sang prepared themself for profound understatement. “Bad?”

“No,” they said, truthfully. “They haven’t asked me to do anything.”

“Have they…” Anakin, still a Padawan, still without the title of General to smother him everywhere, sounded as if he had thought of something even worse. His voice was small. “Have they _ordered_ you to do something bad?”

Sang was older than this Anakin by almost twenty-three years. Anakin was younger than his son had been when Sang had promised Obi-Wan to educate him in the ways of the Force should anything happen. The instinct to comfort those younger than herself returned in force. “No, Anakin. They haven’t. And even if they had,” she cracked a smile, “you know how I feel about orders. Come on, you know this. Orders are…?”

Anakin smiled back. “Subject to internal review.”

“That’s right. They wouldn’t dare to give me anything even approaching an order if they thought I might turn them down.” They lay a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I know you have your reservations regarding the Council. But trust an old cynic like me; they do their best. You can’t ask for much more.”

“We can ask them to be better,” Anakin replied, frowning.

“And you should. You should never be content with the status quo if you believe something’s wrong with it. But you should be sure to understand what you criticize.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close in a sideways hug. “I will always listen to what you have to say. But you need to listen to others, too. And in this, with the Council? I think you would benefit from a little research. Obi-Wan is on the Council. Ask him about his day and guide the conversation towards what you want to know. He’ll be happy you’re taking an interest.”

Anakin turned and enveloped her in a full hug. He was already taller. “He’ll be on to me in a minute.”

“Yes,” Sang agreed. “But he’ll still be happy.”

They sent Anakin off, since they _knew_ he had somewhere to be, even if he tried to insist that he was at liberty for the afternoon. They continued on their way, still only too happy to stop and chat.

But even with all the conversations and diversions and detours, Sang found themself all too quickly at the Temple hangar. They waved to a few of the other people they came across and received friendly overtures in return. Sang was known as a frequent-flier in the hangar; even after months of staying at the Temple as they had in their childhood, there were still nights that she found herself unable to sleep in a bed and only comforted by sleeping on top of their most treasured smuggling hold. Even during the day (which was quickly fading), they were often in and out of the _Liminal_. No one batted an eye when they walked in, and the only thing that was said when they walked back out, large duffel bag now in tow, was “Goodnight, Master Sang!” and “What, no sleepover?” to which Sang only smiled and shook their head.

She waved to a few of the Jedi she knew a little better, but left the Temple without telling anyone and without attracting much attention. As it was hardly forbidden to leave, and the Council had decided not to assign them a babysitter, there was no trouble from that quarter.

Sang made her way through the streets of Coruscant and slowly meandered lower and lower. At this point they weren’t trying to avoid notice; if they were seen walking to the lower levels, that would cover them later. This whole day, really, had been one big cover-your- _shebs_ exercise, but one could never be too careful when planning an assassination of the most influential man in the Republic.

Anakin would be sad about it, but that didn’t even come to close to the potential devastation that would take place if Sang didn’t go through with her plan.

One thing she had never lacked was conviction.

She ate a light dinner at a hole-in-the-wall diner, thought wistfully of Dex’s, and moved on. She had things to do, places to be, Sith to murder. And then they were going to have a riotous celebration and mourn all the men that would never come to be all in one. It was going to be a great night.

The lower levels of Coruscant weren’t half as bad as Obi-Wan had always liked to make them out to be, but Sang had also spent the last two decades in some of the seediest places in the galaxy. In her own mind, it was safe to admit they had standards that were lower than the canyon they’d been left for dead in. A city would have to be actively trying to kill them at all times for them to consider never visiting again, and even that was up for debate.

The lower levels of Coruscant were also filled with tiny crawl spaces that were occasionally perfect for changing into clothes that couldn’t be traced to the Jedi Temple.

The black cloth was familiar, comforting. It had been her standard clothing through her tenure as a Rebel. This would be the last time she would wear this particular shirt, since it was remotely possible that someone would recognize it if she went out with it again, but she wasn’t going to mourn it. It was a shirt.

The real disguise was the hard helmet made of plasform which would effectively hider her horns with the splaying design that might have been rock-lion’s mane molded along a Togruta’s montrals. It was bizarre and, as far as Sang knew, one of a kind. This would certainly be ditched as soon as the deed was done. They had found just the furnace to throw it in a few weeks ago, which had sealed the deal.

Slinging the bag over their shoulder, they started to climb up the side of the building that was closer to the Senate building.

Palpatine was going to die, and he was going to die tonight.

It took a long time to get to one of the highest levels of Coruscant from the lower ones without using a speeder, but Sang was patient and driven and made her way to her sniper’s nest with alacrity. With a speed born of habit, she put her sniper rifle together and loaded the slugs. The window’s of the Emperor’s office were reinforced against blaster bolts and despite the fact that Sang had no intention of shooting them open, it would be easier to believe that slugs had gotten through than blaster bolts. Which was good. They had no intention of making it seem like the Force was involved.

Then they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

They hadn’t been able to sneak a look at Palpatine’s schedule without raising some important eyebrows, but they’d been watching him long enough to know that he always finished his day in his office. He was a Sith, but he was also a bureaucrat, and Sang intended to take full advantage of that fact.

Then he walked in, alone, and sat down at his desk in robes that made Sang want to set him on fire, and her finger twitched at the trigger.

A few hundred speeders whizzed past them, even at this height, and she knew the Force was going to have to guide her on this one, even if she’d preferred to suppress her sensitivities entirely for this. Better safe than sorry, after all.

They reached out with the Force and put pressure on the glass until it cracked, then shattered. Palpatine turned in his swivel chair, and Sang pulled the trigger.

The slug hit him in the chest.

The second got his forehead.

The third hit him in his gut.

Going into the office itself would be foolhardy, but even from across the speeder lane, Sang felt comfortable using the Force to move the bullets around to be sure to nick some vital organs. Preferrably as many as possible.

They were poisoned, too, but it was never overkill where Sith were concerned.

Then Sang packed up her rifle, put the bullet casings in her pocket to dispose of later, and made her way to the furnace to drop off her mask. There was no reason to hang around.

She dropped the casings in three different places, careful to double back and make the most erratic route she could. They weren’t going to get rid of the rifle, but they would have to get it to a hiding place soon, and change into their third shirt. Maybe they would go clubbing. The Jedi wouldn’t think to look for her in a club.

The hiding place for the rifle was actually close to the Temple, which had been intentional. A sort of “the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm” calculation, except for the fact that they were only trying to protect the Jedi from culpability, and they weren’t _really_ that worried about being attacked by them. If it became public knowledge that she had killed the Chancellor… maybe that would become a little bit more of a concern. But for right now, all she had to do was hang out in psychedelic bars, avoid cameras, and do her best to look constantly sloshed without actually drinking any alcohol. Easy.

All in all, the plan went well. They stashed the duffel a few blocks from the first bar they intended to haunt and entered walking like they were already drunk. The lights were rapidly changing color, but stuck mostly to a purple and red scheme. It distorted Sang’s skin color and, even when they let their bioluminescence show, it would keep them sufficiently unrecognizable, not that they were known well or at all outside of the Temple.

When she was on her third cup of Jawa Juice, the news came on. The lights were still going, but the music stopped and instead, a reporter in too much make-up to look like a real person who spoke in a posh, upper Coruscanti accent battered the ears of the patrons.

“Breaking news: Chancellor Sheev Palpatine was assassinated tonight in his office in the Senate building. His killer or killers have yet to be caught, but the Jedi have assured us that they will be devoting the full force of their order to capturing them. Chancellor Palpatine was known for—”  
  


The bartender turned off the holo and the music resumed. The patrons of the bar started to talk amongst themselves, and from what Sang could overhear, it was a mix of surprise and slight relief. Palpatine had had a stellar PR campaign, but he was still a politician, and even the average citizen could sense a sleemo in the public eye or at least get tired of his constantly-televised platitudes.

“You’re taking this pretty well,” said a Delphidian who had been making intermittant moves on her since she’d taken up residence at the bar. His mouth was still curved into a smile. “Happy he’s gone?”

_Ecstatic, actually,_ they thought but didn’t say. “He’s a politician. Couldn’t care less.”

They could feel the Delphidian’s hesitance in the Force, and could just as easily tell that he was going to mirror whatever they said. “Oh, for sure,” he said. Sang could hear his confidence but felt his uncertainty. “I feel exactly the same way.”

They turned their glowing gaze on his face and, though they didn’t have eyebrows, moved their forehead in the same way. “I’m more worried about the stock market.”

Sang relished in the Delphidian’s confusion. “The stock market?”

“Think of the losses,” was all she said in response.

“Right,” said the Delphidian. “Of course. I can’t believe I forgot about the stock market.” He looked a little nervous, then abruptly changed tacks. “Do you want to dance?”

They didn’t, but he was as good an alibi as anyone. “Only if you tell me your name,” they said, channelling Obi-Wan’s “negotiation” as well as they could.

It turned out the Delphidian’s name was Matak Pazi, and he was easily led and not a very good dancer. They danced together for a few songs and Sang built her mental influence over him quicker than was really encouraging of his intelligence. They told him their name was Tami Bast, the best homage to their troopers they could manage now, and emphasized as they dance that they had spent the whole night together, from dusk to dawn, leaning into the Force as they did.

His eyes were glazing over by the fourth time she told him that, but he was perfectly happy to give into the fantasy his brain was constructing and Sang was content to let him.

Then she drank him under the table and left him there, snoring into the floor of the club.

They left the duffel where it was. Best not to be seen lugging it around.

Then they trekked to the niche, buried in the bowels of Coruscant, that they had identified as a safe place to sleep for a few hours. It wouldn’t be pleasant or even a good place to hang out for long, but it was a dark level and difficult to find people on, and the niche was hidden. Better than the streets.

* * *

Sang spent the next ten-day like this. By day, she mostly kept out of sight and stole sleep where she could. By night, she wandered through the seediest, least visible bars she could find and drank, or pretended to drink, a significant portion of the bar’s stock with the money of other patrons.

It was the seventh night, going by the name Lurch Usser, that they realized some of the clones would have already been born. The older ones had been just on the cusp of eleven by Geonosis, and it was that was (or would be; it was getting hard to keep it all straight) only six years away. Come to think of it, all the clones who had been deployed in the Clone Wars were probably born by now, albeit children. But now, maybe, they would be spared the war. And maybe they would even have rights and get paid, like they should have.

It was a happy thought.

* * *

It had been almost thirty days living like this (though they had found a job as a bootleg bacta manufacturer halfway through, since they would have died of boredom otherwise, and they found themself laughing at the irony that they found their way into familiar situations even in this unfamiliar time) when they emerged to the mid levels and drank a home-mixed (or lab-mixed; the line was blurred now) Hyperdrive. It was only a little risky now; they certainly could have chosen something worse to do. The Jedi weren’t really looking for them, as far as they would tell. Or if they were, they had assumed Sang had escaped off-planet. Just as well.

But she had forgotten about her first master.

A speeder pulled up in front of them, just as the sun was going down, and the Quarren’s gray head popped up. Sang’s own head, albeit with shorter horns and less-developed bioluminescence emerged a second later.

Sang bit back her favorite curses. Padawan Sang, the younger Sang, was only twelve. And no matter how much time they spent around soldiers now, Sang didn’t want to be a bad influence on herself.

“Sang,” said Master Win Pecong in her most severe scolding tone, “I’m very disappointed in you.”

It had been twenty-six years since Sang had ever heard that tone directed at them from that mouth, but it still stung a little.

“It’s not alcoholic,” they said instead of addressing the real issue. “It’s just tasty. And I told you, you can call me Banaat to avoid confusion.”

“Are you avoiding us?” the Padawan asked. Of course. The Council wouldn’t tell a Padawan about her disclaimer. There wasn’t any point.

“No, _jetii’ka,”_ she said, smiling. “I just got bored. I needed to do something.”

Win crossed her arms. “Like what?”

“Like get a job making bacta,” they replied, which wasn’t technically lying but wasn’t really the truth either. Like all the best lies. “The pay isn’t terrible, but it’s a huge step up from not getting paid at all.”

Win leapt out of the speeder to Sang’s side and said at a volume not meant for her Padawan to hear (but still within the younger Sang’s hearing range, because they had always known the advantage of being underestimated), “You warned the Jedi Council that you were going to do something that could be dangerous and reckless and you got a _job_ as a _bacta manufacturer?”_

“They told you about that?”

It wasn’t _that_ much of a surprise, but it was still… odd.

“Forty years old or not, you’re my Padawan. They thought I needed to know.”

She rolled her eyes, not that anyone could tell. “It’s not exactly a legal operation, Master. But it suits my skills and it goes to planets the Republic has an embargo against, or that the Chancellor has a grudge against, so it’s worth it.”

“The Chancellor is dead.”

“Yes, I know.”

Win narrowed her eyes. The younger Sang hopped to Sang’s other side and sat down, and for a moment Win looked like she wasn’t going to ask the question she clearly needed to. But her need to know won out and Sang could feel her resignation through the dilapidated bond that still linked their two minds. “Sang, did you kill the Chancellor of the Republic?”

She wasn’t sure what to say.

“This should be an easy question to answer, Sang,” her first master said irritably, though it sounded too much like when she had been caught out for not brushing their teeth. “Did you or didn’t you kill the Chancellor?”

They handed what was left of the Hyperdrive to their younger self. “What would you do if I did?”

If Win Pecong had been a more expressive Jedi, she would have thrown her hands up in exasperation. “For Force’s sake, what did you expect to happen? You killed the most powerful man in the galaxy!”

“I didn’t say that. I asked what you would do if I had.”

Their first master clicked her teeth at them. “I would demand to know just what in the Sith hells you were thinking. And if you weren’t acting like a loon, I might keep it a secret.”

Sang gave Win a thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it. In that case, yes I did kill Sheev Palpatine, but it was for a really good reason.”

Their younger self giggled. Win Pecong just dropped her face into her hands. “Please. Enlighten me.”

“All three of us, and the Jedi council, agree that I am your Padawan but from twenty-seven years in the future, right?” Padawan Sang nodded, still holding the Hyperdrive, which had since gone flat. Win just shrugged, but the bond told Sang that this was more out of resignation than denial. “So it really should be no surprise that I know things about the future, even with my utter lack of visions.” Win shrugged again, but Padawan Sang seemed thrilled by the idea. “Long story cut very short, Sheev Palpatine was a Sith who turned the Republic into an Empire, slaughtered the Jedi, and all but enslaved everyone else. I didn’t have the opportunity to kill him in my own time, but this seemed as good a deal as any. And this way, we don’t have to deal with the Empire. Count Dooku is still out in the galaxy, but at least we know who he is. We didn’t know who Darth Sidious was until he wiped us out.”

“Revenge is not the Jedi way,” Master Pecong said, a little weakly.

“This wasn’t revenge,” Sang objected. She paused for a moment and gave that a little more thought. “Well, maybe it was, but it would be stupid of me to let him live. It was the pragmatic thing to do. He already orchestrated the Battle of Naboo and turned Dooku to the Dark Side. It wasn’t like I was killing an innocent bystander.”

“Padawan, please _never_ take your older self as a model Jedi,” said Win, and Sang turned to look at the twelve year old, who was staring back at her with wide eyes and her mouth open in a grin. “Promise me, Padawan. Don’t do it.”

The younger Sang just shook her head, still grinning.

“If anything, she’s just applying what she learned from you,” Sang pointed out. “You take them into war zones and tell them to figure it out. Taking care of a threat like this before it can do any real damage is a lesson you taught us.”

“But revenge is a poison!” Pecong exclaimed. “It will taint your Light—”

“Like being one of under a hundred survivors wasn’t going to do that to me in the first place. And we both know that’s a load of bantha shit anyway, because there’s no way that being essentially an antiwar activist is going to make me slaughter children.” There was a time for humor, and Sang had decided about a year ago that it was always time, even when everyone around them disagreed.

Master Pecong looked up from her hands with an expression that might have been dread. “I can’t believe I raised you to think that assassinating a head of state counts as antiwar activism.”

“Anything else gets you called a Separatist or a Rebel, so I might as well make it count!” The cheer that laced their words wasn’t false, but it was verging on hysterical. “I’ll organize a march if it makes you feel better, but I have something a lot more important we need to do as soon as possible.”

“Other than getting you off planet and sticking you in a hole somewhere you can’t get in trouble?”

The younger Sang laughed at that. “Don’t be silly, Master. We could find trouble in Master Windu’s sock drawer.”

Sang hugged her younger self tight to her side. “We’re right, Master.”

“You’re a bad influence on yourself.” Master Pecong sighed and got to her feet, gesturing at the speeder with the kind of limp frustration that Sang remembered from Irtoc, when she had come up with a spectacularly reckless plan that had about even odds of getting her killed, but guaranteed the safety of the people they had been sent to help. Master Pecong hadn’t had a better idea then, and she was clearly resigned to following her forty year old Padawan’s lead now. “What’s more important than keeping you out of trouble?”

Sang hopped into the passenger seat of the speeder, grinning.

“Kamino.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I keep posting all these niche fics and I put a disclaimer/disbelieving gratitude on all of them that I don't expect anyone to like/read them, but at this point I'm just going to say thank you so much for enjoying something that is 100% self-indulgent.
> 
> I also really liked writing a character who was so matter-of-fact about breaking laws and doing sort of ruthless things, but felt hurt when someone didn't trust them around children. Sang is fun to write.


End file.
